The one thing Pierre wanted now with all his heart and soul was to get away from the ghastly sensations he had lived through that day, to get back to his ordinary life-style, go indoors and settle down to sleep in his own bed. He could sense that life would have to get back to normal before he could begin to understand himself and all he had seen and experienced. But around him there were no signs of normality.
Although there were no bullets or shells whistling down on the road he was walking along, all the things he had seen and heard on the battlefield were still in evidence on every side. Everywhere he saw the same agonized, exhausted, sometimes curiously vacant faces, the same blood, the same soldiers’ overcoats, the same sounds of firing no less horrifying for being a bit further away. Beyond that, it was all heat and dust.
Pierre walked a couple of miles down the Mozhaysk road and sat down at the side of the road.
It was dusky now, and the firing had stopped. Pierre stretched out, leaning on one elbow, and lay there for ages watching the shadows walk past in the evening twilight. He kept imagining a shell hurtling down on him with a weird screaming sound. This would give him the shudders and make him sit up. He had no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night, three soldiers came up with firewood, settled down near by and lit a fire.
The soldiers kept glancing across at Pierre as they got the fire burning up, stuck a cooking-pot on it and dropped in their broken biscuits, followed by some lard. The delicious aroma of the greasy stew mingled with the smell of smoke. Pierre pulled himself half-way up and gave a sigh. The soldiers (there were three of them) were eating and chatting away, completely ignoring Pierre.
‘What mob do you belong to, then?’ one of the soldiers suddenly asked Pierre, the question clearly suggesting that he was thinking along the same lines as Pierre. He seemed to be saying, ‘If you’re hungry we’ll give you some grub, only tell us if you’re a good man first.’
‘Who, me? . . .’ said Pierre, sensing a need to lower his social standing as much as he could so he could feel closer to the soldiers and more within their range of experience.
‘Actually, I’m an officer with the militia, but my men have disappeared. I went out on the battlefield and we got separated.’
‘Is that right?’ said one of the soldiers.
Another shook his head.
‘Well, you can have some of this muck if you fancy it!’ said the first man. He licked his wooden spoon clean and handed it to Pierre.
Pierre squatted down nearer the fire, and weighed into the brew in the pot. It tasted like the most delicious food he had ever eaten. As he bent over the pot, helping himself to huge spoonfuls and wolfing them down one after another, the soldiers watched him in silence. Then one of them spoke again.
‘Where you off to, then, eh?’
‘Mozhaysk.’
‘You a gent, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Pyotr Kirillovich.’
‘All right, Pyotr Kirillovich, you come with us, we’ll get you there.’ In the dead of night the soldiers walked to Mozhaysk and Pierre went with them.
The cocks were crowing by the time they arrived and started climbing the uphill slope into the town. Pierre walked on with the soldiers oblivious to the fact that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and he had gone right past it. He might never have noticed – his thoughts were miles away – if he hadn’t happened to run into his groom half-way up the hill. The groom had been out looking for him up in the town, and was on his way back to the inn when he recognized Pierre by the whiteness of his hat, which stood out in the dark.
‘Your Excellency!’ he cried. ‘We was getting worried about you. What are you doing walking? And where are you heading for, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Er, yes . . .’ said Pierre.
The soldiers came to a halt.
‘Right, found your own people, have you?’ said one of them.
‘We’ll say goodbye, then. Pyotr Kirillovich, wasn’t it?’
‘Goodbye, Pyotr Kirillovich!’ came the other voices.
‘Goodbye!’ said Pierre, and he turned off towards the inn with the groom.
‘Should I tip them?’ thought Pierre, feeling for his pocket. ‘No, better not,’ an inner voice told him.
There wasn’t a room to be had at the inn; every one was taken. Pierre went out into the yard, muffled his head up and lay down in his carriage.
CHAPTER 9
